


Supported

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater, Soul Eater Not!
Genre: Breathplay, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-14 05:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5730610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"That, Akane thinks, was when he first started to fall in love, in the moments between unconsciousness and reviving, when he felt Clay’s hands supporting him. And this is support too, if of a different kind." Clay is good at supporting Akane when he needs it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Supported

Akane likes the way Clay’s hands feel.

His weapon’s grip is stronger than his, his fingers wider, his palms softer, lacking the combat calluses Akane’s have borne for years. Akane remembers noticing his hands, first, drawn to the nervous flex in the other’s fingers as they stood in a room full of new Shibusen students and tried to find their way to a partner for the next several years; it had looked like an offer, the suggestion of panic Akane knew how to calm, and when he had stepped forward to offer his name, and a smile, and a handshake, the gratitude in Clay’s blue eyes was more than enough to fulfill his expectations. But Clay’s stronger than that first interaction led Akane to believe; he found that out during one of their first assignments, before he learned how to maneuver with the extra length Clay’s weapon form afforded him. Akane had come to after taking a blow to the head to find Clay’s arms around him, Clay’s grip clinging to his shoulder and supporting the unconscious weight of his head, and if the weapon’s voice had been shaking on Akane’s name his hands were steady, strong and comforting in a way Akane had long since stopped expecting to find in another. That, he thinks, was when he first started to fall in love, in the moments between unconsciousness and reviving, when he felt Clay’s hands supporting him.

And this is support too, if of a different kind.

“Do you want me to stop?” Clay asks from his lean over Akane on the bed. His knee is pressed between the other’s, the denim of his jeans catching at the bare skin of Akane’s thighs; his shoulders are tilted in, the shadow of his body falling over Akane’s eyes. But Akane’s not really looking anyway, isn’t paying much attention to sight at all, because it’s Clay’s hands that are holding his attention, the steady weight of them settled close against the line of his throat as he attempts to breathe past the pressure.

Clay doesn’t wait for an answer. The question was rhetorical, anyway; Akane’s hardly likely to forget their safeword, and even without air he knows Clay will stop to a touch, to the tap of fingers at his hip that indicates the same as the sound would. The fact that he hasn’t spoken, that his hands are spread open on the sheets beside him, is answer enough to turn the question into the show it is. Clay knows it too: “You don’t,” he says, hard on the heels of the inquiry, pressing his leg in closer against Akane’s hips to weight against the rising heat of his cock. Akane shudders at the friction, his sudden inhale hissing audibly in his throat, and Clay braces his hands into a better grip, his fingers shifting into a promise. “You like this.” His hold tightens, the pressure of his hands cutting off Akane’s airway completely for a moment, and Akane jerks, blood rushing so suddenly to his cock that he feels dizzy, lightheaded like he’s lost track of his own awareness. His throat works for air, his lungs constricting in reflexive panic, but the adrenaline in him is arousal more than fear, the press of Clay’s hands offering more heat than threat. Clay presses his leg closer, grinds uncoordinated pressure against Akane’s cock, and then his hold eases to grant Akane the air he needs to gasp a moan of appreciation at the friction.

“You’re so needy,” Clay tells him, the words purring into a weight Akane rarely hears except in combat, gaining traction and heat in the weapon’s throat like the angle of his shoulders is giving him years of maturity and self-confidence. “What would people say if they knew?” A grind of his knee, another flex of his fingers; it’s only for a moment, this time, the suggestion of breathlessness more than the pressure in truth, but Akane’s hips come up anyway, his body arching to meet Clay’s as if the dig of the other’s touch is a command. “The great Akane Hoshi, the meister everyone thinks is so cool and composed.” Clay’s knee rocks higher, presses flush against Akane’s cock; Akane can feel the surge of heat that rushes through him pulse him harder against Clay’s thigh, wonders if Clay can feel it too, even looking at Akane’s face and not his hips. “But this is what you want.” Clay’s thumb slides down, trailing against Akane’s throat like he’s dragging affection in his wake; Akane shudders, trembles himself into breathless heat, and Clay flexes his fingers to press his breathing to silence again. “My hands on your throat.” His hips come down, his leg grinds closer. “Me telling you what to do.” Akane’s head is spinning, his vision hazing to distraction; he still has enough air for consciousness, even if Clay doesn’t let him go, but he can feel his heartbeat thrumming hard into the whole length of his cock, can feel the seam of Clay’s jeans catching against his skin and dragging sensation up his spine, and if Clay’s fingers weren’t already denying him breath that would be enough to steal it from him. Clay’s breathing hard over him, his shoulders shifting with the effort like he’s trying to gasp enough oxygen for both of them at once; his eyes are dark, when Akane forces his vision into focus on them, his lips parted on heat as he pushes his leg in closer.

“Do you wish I was fucking you?” he asks, self-consciousness so overridden by heat there’s hardly a flicker of reaction behind his eyes at the sound of his own statement. He eases his hold off, lets Akane gasp a rush of air into aching lungs before he bears down again. “Do you want me to feel how hot you get when I choke you?” Another motion of his leg; he’s rocking against the other’s hip, Akane realizes distantly, setting a rhythm to the shift of his weight that would be purely sexual even without the heat Akane can feel pushing hard against the denim of Clay’s jeans. “Or is this better?” He’s leaning in closer, ducking his head in until his hair catches at Akane’s; Akane can feel how hot Clay’s breathing is against his lips, like he’s making an offering of air that the other can’t accept past the pressure on his throat. “You like this even more,” and it’s not a question, and Akane wouldn’t try to deny it if it was. “I haven’t even taken my belt off and you’re going to pieces, Akane, are you gonna come just from me choking you?” Clay’s thumb eases, Akane struggles through a breath, but the pressure remains, constriction tight against the usual reflexive ease of inhales, the fight for air turning his body hot and achy with tension. Clay’s watching him, his eyes so dark the shadows are nearly eclipsing their color; in other circumstances Akane would tease him, would point out that he’s not the only one painfully hard from this. But Akane can barely breathe, has no hope at all of speaking, and even were his voice his own he wouldn’t push back at this, wouldn’t resist the surge of self-consciousness that runs through him at Clay’s question.

“You will,” Clay says, and shifts his hand, carefully so he won’t drag raw friction against Akane’s skin. With the different angle he can bring the weight of his elbow into the motion, can let the force of the action come from his position instead of the strength in his fingers; Akane’s eyelashes flutter, his blood turns steam-hot in his veins. His thoughts are hazy, his heartbeat thudding frantic against his chest, and Clay’s still talking, his voice weighted and rough and very far away, too far away to listen to. “Just like this, Akane, with my hands on your throat and you--” and Akane jerks, caught unawares by the rush of pleasure that runs through him. Clay might still be talking, he might have gone silent as Akane started to come; Akane’s not sure, he’s not listening to anything but the hum of satisfaction in his veins, now. His mouth is open, his back curving, his hands clutching at Clay’s hips; each shudder of heat pulses through his cock, spills wet over his stomach and the edge of Clay’s jeans. That will be a mess, later, but that’s not for Akane to worry about right now; he’s too caught in holding to Clay to pull him closer, to steady himself, and then the pressure at his throat eases and he drags a breath into aching lungs, tastes the ragged edge on the sound that turns it into a moan as he falls back to the mattress shaky and spent.

Clay lets Akane catch his breath for a moment, slides his hold away from the other’s throat as he rocks back over his knees and looks down at the picture Akane is making before him. Akane prickles with heat, a faint flush of unfamiliar self-consciousness dragging through him at the level consideration of Clay’s gaze, like he’s contemplating the offer of Akane’s bare skin and determining whether to accept it or not.

“Clay,” Akane rasps, hearing the other’s name grate raw in his aching throat. He tightens his hold on Clay’s hips, flexes his arms into the strongest pull he can manage; it’s not much, not with his legs still trembling with the exertion of pleasure and his lungs aching with reinstated air, but it’s the idea that matters, the plea implied by the effort to urge Clay closer.

Clay looks back up to Akane’s face, returns his focus to the other’s eyes after working a slow route down the rhythm of breathing in his chest and the slick spill of come across his stomach. For a moment he holds Akane’s heat-hazed stare, his expression unreadable; Akane’s not sure what he’ll decide, wonders briefly if he’ll bring them out of the scene, if he’ll let Akane get him off at all even then. Then he looks back down, at Akane’s hips and the weight of his softening cock, and when he reaches out to close his hands into bracing holds at either side of Akane’s hips Akane lets out a breath of relief even before the other pulls to flip him over. There’s a rush of motion, Akane’s world inverting too fast for him to follow, and Clay shifting behind him, moving to slide his leg free of Akane’s thighs even as he pushes the other over onto his stomach. For a breath Akane is flat across the bed, supported by the sweat-damp of the sheets under him; then Clay pulls again, dragging him back and towards him, and Akane’s knees bend reflexively to let Clay drag his hips up into the air. It makes a slope of his back, makes him into an explicit offering with his shoulders still pressed down against the mattress, but Akane doesn’t try to push himself up onto his elbows or over his hands to reclaim some measure of agency; if Clay wants him higher up he’ll move him there, and in the meantime Akane likes the curve the position makes of his back, likes to think about the way he looks to Clay from his position at the end of the bed. Akane can hear Clay moving, shifting over the mattress and reaching over him towards the bedside table; he shuts his eyes to better focus on the sound, to better picture what Clay’s doing since he can’t see it past the fall of dark hair over his face. There’s the click of plastic, Clay hissing reflexive response to chill liquid against warm skin; after a moment Akane can make out the sound of wet catching on itself, can picture the shine of lubrication coating Clay’s fingers. It makes him breathe harder, deep inhales that fill the whole space of his lungs and stir his blood back towards the edge of interest again, and then Clay’s hand touches at his thigh, pushing to urge Akane’s stance a little wider. Akane lets his knees slide open, lowers his weight closer to the sheets under him, and then wet touches him, the cool slide of Clay’s slippery fingers dragging across the tension of his entrance.

“You’re ready for this,” Clay tells him, like he’s stating a known fact rather than asking for permission.

Akane takes a breath of air, answers anyway. “Always.”

His response makes Clay laugh, a bright note of sound; the touch against Akane presses, the tip of one finger dipping inside him for a moment of breathless friction before drawing out again just as Akane relaxes into encouragement. “You really are.” Another touch, easier this time; Akane gives over to the contact, deliberately letting himself open to Clay’s touch to urge the pressure farther, harder, faster. His cock is warm, not hard again yet but definitely thinking about it, and Clay’s fingers are sliding deeper, tiny questing thrusts with individual fingers like he’s testing Akane’s depth, like he’s trying to catch him off-guard by a sudden movement. “You open up so easy for me, Akane, do you always want it this bad?” A deeper thrust, almost the length of a whole finger; Akane’s back arches, his breath leaving his lungs in a rush, but when he tenses it’s to draw Clay farther instead of to push him away. Clay slides his fingers out, presses a pair against Akane’s entrance at once; everything is slick, his touch sliding easy over Akane’s skin, and Akane’s chest tenses on the adrenaline of expectation.

“I don’t mind,” Clay tells him, and pushes gently, urging Akane open around two fingers together, the movement eased by the slick of the lube coating his skin. Akane can feel the ache, now, the tug of stress inside him as Clay dips deeper, but when he exhales it comes out as a moan, unmistakeable encouragement hot on his tongue. Clay draws his fingers back out and Akane wants to hiss, wants to protest the removal, but he doesn’t; it’s his role to stay quiet, now, to take what Clay gives him at whatever pace Clay wants him to have it. There’s a shift behind him, Clay adjusting his weight; then the hand at Akane’s hip draws away, pushes down and around him instead, and Akane sucks in a sharp inhale as Clay’s fingers drag over and close around the shape of his slow-hardening cock. Clay huffs over him, something almost a laugh, and clarifies: “As long as we’re not in public” as he presses his fingers against Akane’s length, teasing sensation up the other’s spine and urging heat to rise to his touch. Akane takes a breath, filling his lungs with air as his cock hardens again, and Clay’s fingers are back against him, dipping into him without any more warning than the friction of the touch against him. Akane lets his exhale go in a rush, back arching involuntarily as Clay slides deeper into him, and he’s fully hard now, drawn to arousal by Clay’s featherlight touches clinging to the drying come from Akane’s first orgasm. Clay doesn’t steady his grip -- it’s just glancing contact, the press of fingers against the head, the slide of a thumb along the underside, the drag of his palm around the base -- but it’s better, Akane thinks, than something more determined would be. He’s shaking with it, anyway, feeling his heartbeat speed with every slide of Clay’s hold over him, and Clay’s pushing far inside him, now, spreading his fingers wider to stroke friction inside Akane’s body. His touch slides, catches against sensitive nerve endings, and Akane tenses involuntarily, his breathing rushing out of him in a helpless groan of heat. There’s another stroke, a long drag of fingers like Clay’s drawing heat in his wake, and then he’s pulling away, abandoning Akane’s skin to the chill of the air as he draws his hands back.

“Just hold still for a minute,” he says, the command unnecessary given how shaky and hot Akane is through all his body. He’s not sure he could move smoothly if he tried, if he wanted to, and with the click of a belt buckle coming open behind him there is no part of him that has any desire to be elsewhere. Akane opens his eyes, stares unseeing at the bedroom wall past the haze of his hair while he listens to Clay unfasten his pants and push his clothing half-off; then a hand touches at his hip again, fingers spreading wide to brace him, and Akane turns his head down to breathe against the suffocating heat of the sheets under him, to fight for composure as Clay’s slick fingers trail across his entrance again.

“You’re ready,” Clay tells him, his touch pressing gentle against Akane’s body. Akane can feel himself tensing to the contact, his body flexing into anticipation at Clay’s touch; he’s sure Clay can see it too, can watch the way the drag of his fingers ripples all the way through Akane with the same involuntary effect as electricity. There’s the press of a thumb, weight threatening to dip back into Akane’s body; then the touch slides away, and up, and Akane moans against the sheets as the head of Clay’s cock pushes against him instead. Clay’s hand tightens at his hip, an unspoken tell, and then he’s thrusting forward, sinking himself into Akane in a smooth forward stroke. Akane’s head goes back, his neck straining on reaction as his body trembles, and he’s groaning without thinking, spilling sound to the air as Clay whimpers himself breathless behind him.

“You look so good,” Clay manages, the words a little faint and a little overheated, like he’s gone back in time to when they were new students at Shibusen, before maturity filled out the line of his shoulders and the angle of his jaw. His thumb pushes against Akane’s entrance for a moment, adding friction just over the stretch of Clay’s cock; for a moment Akane can feel the sensation on both sides, Clay’s touch just outside him, Clay’s cock sliding into him. “Akane.” His hand slides, trailing over the curve of Akane’s hips and down along the slope of his back; his fingers spread wide, span the flex of Akane’s shoulders and the tension of his arching neck. “You look so good like this.”

Akane licks his lips, swallows hard. “Clay,” he says, raspy and hot and strained, his body trembling with the effort it costs him to speak while Clay is drawing back, while Clay is fucking farther into him. “Clay, please.”

“I will,” Clay says, soothing without specifics. He comes all the way forward, this time, pressing flush against Akane’s hips; Akane can feel the drag of Clay’s open zipper against the back of his thighs, can feel the weight of Clay’s belt buckle bumping against his skin. Clay pauses, holds them there for a moment; Akane feels his heart pounding in his chest, almost-panic at the stretch inside him, and brighter, more clearly, the ache of heat in his cock, the tremor of desire straining against his legs and in the curve of his spine. “I will.” And then his fingers are around Akane again, the slick still clinging to them enough to ease the drag of his stroke, and Akane groans and rocks himself into the contact and Clay starts to move, setting a slow rhythm with his hips while his hand moves faster over Akane. It’s a strange balance; Clay’s grip is brightest, clearest, the catch of his fingers against the head of Akane’s cock a burst of heat with every stroke. But the motion of his hips is there too, each forward thrust slow and deep and thorough, Clay coming so far forward that Akane’s attention skids out every time Clay’s hips hit his. There’s no relief between the two, no time to catch a breath or to find a rhythm, and Akane’s breathing as hard now as he was before, gasping like he can’t find air even though his throat is unrestrained now except for the memory of Clay’s hands around it.

“You look so good,” Clay is saying over him, purring compliments over the slope of Akane’s shoulders as if Akane can listen, as if Akane has any space in the heat slowly spreading through his body to manage a response. “You feel so good, Akane, you’re so hot,” with a twist of his wrist, a sudden upwards stroke out-of-rhythm with his hand. “Akane, are you going to come again?” and again, faster this time, a burst of sensation so unexpected Akane’s whole body jolts with it, his fingers twisting into fists on the sheets as he wails a moan against the bed. Clay’s breathing harder over him, his words starting to fray at the edges, but it’s his hand that’s holding Akane’s attention, now, the drag of his fingers working over the other’s skin like he’s the meister, as if Akane’s body is a weapon to be coaxed into surrender, to be drawn into the bright thrum of Resonance. “Akane,” his voice urges, his fingers insist, and he’s still thrusting, a counterpoint of sensation that Akane can’t stop straining around, a burst of friction Akane can’t stop reaching for. “Akane, let me feel you come” and Akane gasps air and shudders an exhale and comes, breaking in perfect obedience to the purr of Clay’s voice. There’s not much to spill over the sheets but he can feel the pulses of heat just the same, gasps and tenses through each surge of pleasure, and Clay’s moaning over him, his voice cracking to sudden heights as his hips stutter forward into an orgasm of his own. Akane’s hot everywhere, with the pressure of Clay inside him and the sweat-slick radiance of his own body glowing with heat, and for a minute everything goes hazy, all the sharp edges of his attention melted and muted by the hum of relief and pleasure coursing through his body.

Clay eases out of him slowly. Akane can feel the slick slide of him, can feel the tremors of satisfaction knocking Clay’s hold on his hip unsteady and shaky; it’s not until Clay’s rocked back over his knees that Akane lets his knees slide across the sheets to drop him flat to his stomach. The sheets are damp under him, they cling against his flushed skin; it’s better when he turns over, easier to breathe fresh air without the weight of the blankets over his face.

“Oh my god,” Clay breathes in something like his normal tone, and he’s falling over the bed, taking Akane’s place over the sticky sheets. His hair catches Akane’s shoulder; when he turns Akane can feel the warmth of Clay’s breathing against his skin. “That was.”

“Amazing,” Akane says to the ceiling, his voice still clinging to the rough edges of effort in his throat.

Clay shifts, reaching out to bump his fingers against Akane’s hip. “Are you okay?”

Akane blinks, deliberately slow, waiting while his brain reorients itself to reality rather than blurting the immediate affirmative he wants to offer. His throat is raw, his neck still warm with the remembered texture of Clay’s fingers, and his heart is still pounding fast, thrumming rapidfire against the inside of his chest. His legs are shaky, his whole body aching with the overexertion of coming twice in too-quick succession, but he’s warm all over, the heat clinging to his skin leaving him languid and heavy with the satisfaction that he can only ever find like this, under the weight of Clay’s hands.

“I am,” he says, and shifts the arm he has draped over his stomach to reach for Clay’s hand, to wind his fingers into the other’s. It takes an effort to turn sideways, to roll over to face him, but Clay lifts his head as Akane shifts, pushing up on an elbow to brace himself upright. Akane leans in close, presses his forehead against Clay’s, and Clay shuts his eyes for a moment, inhales deep like he’s grounding himself off the heat of Akane’s breathing. It makes Akane smile, unwinds affection all through his mind and along the line of his spine; he tightens his hold on Clay’s fingers, presses weight against the other’s hand, and when he leans in closer it’s to fit a kiss against the corner of Clay’s mouth. Clay smiles into the friction, lifts his head to meet Akane’s mouth, and when Akane pushes in against him Clay lets the other pin him down against the mattress, reaches up to catch himself against Akane’s waist as Akane kisses him into the sheets.

Clay’s hands are gentle against Akane’s skin.


End file.
